Curious Skin
by historicallylate
Summary: While the hunt for a serial killer keeps the Major Crimes team busy, there are other, personal, things to chase after as well. Post season 3A, slight A/U. Sharon/Andy for Romance part. See ch1 for details.
1. Chapter 1

**Curious Skin**

Genre:_ Romance Suspense (Crime)_  
>Rating:<em> M overall<em>  
>Setting:<em> post season 3A<br>_A/U:_ mainly to do with the Raydor divorce (not as easy) and pretty much ignores 3B Shandy  
><em>Summary:_ While the Major Crimes team is on the hunt for a serial killer, there are other, more personal goals to be chased. Sharon/Andy, but all main characters are here too and some not-so-main like the kids and even a bf for Rusty..._

_Thanks to: Sally Martin for helping out :)  
>Apologies for: not knowing how to post chapters here on FF or how to make good summaries<em>

_Please note: I probably will edit backwards as the story goes, but I will not change the content in any meaningful way. Will edit above details as needed._

_Good editor hired, paid in excessive Shandy. :) (No, really.)_

_Standard disclaimers apply. If I owned anything, I'd be much happier and clearly better practiced. If I made money, I probably would amuse myself with more expensive things._

* * *

><p>Bravery was never a problem for Andy Flynn. That is, it never was before he met her.<p>

She has the unprecedented talent of making him cautious - even if she is never skittish, never anything less than assured around him. Still something always makes him forget the promises he makes to himself.

Tonight, he has decided, is not going to be one of those times.

No, tonight he is not going to back off because of a true smile, a whispered thank you, a warm palm on his chest, not even because of a sweet word of praise. Not like yesterday, when the praise was for his sensitivity and at home he had a hard time of not laughing. He is not sensitive and she can't think that either.

He parks the car, lets the engine die. Losing the comforting backdrop of the mechanical purr, all he had to focus on was the dark and stale air behind his long ago cleaned windscreen.

The words he rehearsed all evening stick to his mouth, his hands grip the wheel for fortification.

He hears her shuffle in her seat.

He wonders how she always finds so many things to faff about. Usually it doesn't matter; usually he springs to open the door for her and doesn't mind the extra moment just to watch.

Today he is grateful of this particular quirk.

"Sharon, before you go... Do you have a minute?"

He doesn't look at her, but suspects she smiles at him. It is something in the sound of her soft breaths that translates into a smile in his brain. She does smile a lot, at everything he does or says, unless she is displeased or taken completely by surprise.

"There's something I've wanted to go over with you," he starts fearing he is making the smile go away, "but there never seems to be a right time."

"Oh," she says losing the smile at the earnestness of his voice, "Is it serious? Something at work? Not surely something with your family?"

"No, not anything like that." He offers her a tired smile, hoping she trust him. "Don't worry."

She does worry. About him, his family, hers, even about work. Still she is not a worrier exactly; she is a carer, she cares.

It is this insight into her that makes him brave.

"It's something else, really."

"Okay."

That one word is concise in conveying both 'go ahead, I'm listening' and 'I have no idea where this is going but I trust you'. Maybe even some of 'you better not waste my time'. As he has started to understand it, he loved the economy of her communication.

"Nothing serious, so... Well —"

His hesitation makes her turn to him, the best she can in her seat. He doesn't get to finishing his sentence, so she needs to prompt him.

"Andy, what if you just told me?"

"Yeah. I guess. The thing is —"

Before his words go anywhere, her phone buzzes. Without looking she fumbles her purse and mutes the thing.

The surprise, and the thought he should ask if that was just mute or indeed decline, makes him start again, "Well, the thing is..." The vibrating of her phone cuts him short; again she silences it. "I know we —"

His own phone stops his words now. Unlike her, he glances at the screen.

He doesn't have to see the message to know his chance for talking is over.

"Work."

She nods, smooths the cuff of her trench, waits for him to say what it is on his mind. Instead, he answers the call and while he talks with muted tones, her phone vibrates with a text message.

The phone's warmth against his ear is the only thing safely blocking him from the lure of her. She exhales a ragged breath into the cream upholstering of his beaten car's roof and it makes him react. He knows she had received the same, unwelcome news.

He ends the call with a disheartened promise to be there as soon as he can. After a sigh and running fingers through his hair, his focus immediately drifts to her sleety eyes. Gone is the earthy warmth he has enjoyed throughout the evening. She is tired, broken with the case that refuses to move forward.

Still, unnecessarily, he says, "We caught another body."

"I know."

All thoughts of bravery and taking chances forgotten, he goes for practicality. "You should get home and change."

She ignores him, the thumb stroking the hem of her dress against her thigh the only clue that she is listening to him. There she is, waiting for him. She is in no hurry, even with their responsibilities pressing.

Andy takes the initiative, exits the car and rounds it to open the door for her. The echo of his rubber soles against concrete is louder than usually and the clang of the passenger door's handle rings like an end-of-play gong. His nervousness shuts down the reserves needed for better similes.

Or maybe it is her eyes already looking up at him through the window the moment he takes his place behind her door.

At the appearance of the first crack, he watches her gather the stuffy air in deep inhale, uneven, like a whale shifting through the pressurized water for microscopic prey. It does not help with thinking, but she clearly hopes.

"Can you say it quick," she appeals when he stands in wait holding the door like a lackey for the lady to step out, "whatever it was?"

There is an argument for blurting it out right now, in the hopes of lessening the disappointment they both feel for the disruption work brings to their lives once again. Yet the gruesome possibility of admissions making what they need to do in a matter of minutes, hours, even more gruelling argues against any such admissions.

"No, no, it will keep. No hurry."

His bravery or his decisions are no match for her.

-x-x-x-

The bodies are all similar. All women, all young, all innocent yet murdered.

This one is no exception.

The hair is tangled and dead, but still held up in pigtails with simple pink bands.

This one is younger than the three before her.

The camera pans, slowly, and zooms to pick up the diluted pink bubblegum stuck on her cutoff shorts.

"God, why does that have to be pink too?"

The words of the seasoned Lieutenant are on the top of his mind too, but Buzz is not anxious to have them eternalized on film. On every scene there is always too much pink.

"At least she is better preserved, Lieutenant," he says instead, "We got here faster."

"Not fast enough."

It is dry, the month has been dry all through, and the pond is little more than a puddle; the stench not all from rotting flesh. There are no minute rises on the dirt to tell of usable footprints, there is nothing significant on the ground. A few dry leaves displaced; some scraps of packaging, the type that always sticks on the bottoms of pockets, embedded in the dying grass. There is too much to tie anything to the body, too little that actually fits.

It seems pointless at least when the divers come up empty. Nothing. A dead girl with much pink and too many colored patches on her skin. Water is not gentle.

Provenza sighs, turns around to see the people standing around trying to grasp even the faintest of clues. An amazing way to spend their Thursday nights. He would like to send them all home. There is not much possibility of them coming up with anything that would move things forward at almost ten p.m. He has been told not to, so what he would like and what he will do are two completely different things.

"And where the hell is the bane of all our combined existences?" He wastes the snark since nobody pays him any mind. With few strides he is closer to the team and repeats, "Anyone know where the Captain is?"

"She's coming," both Andy and Sykes answer.

Provenza raises a brow. Where there was no answer before, now there are two. One answer he can stomach, the second seems odd, too much information.

To reassure his friend Andy mouths, "Play."

That detail is enough to make Provenza's eyes roll. No wonder Flynn was late and out of breath.

"She'll meet us at the morgue," Amy adds.

"Fine. Then let's roll. Buzz, all done?"

"Not much to see here."

"Kendall, your show."

Every search of every scene always ended the same. Someone else took over, someone else made the final touches. Everyone had their roles and theirs is only about to start.

Provenza sheds a last glance over the small opening before the pond, the dark blue uniforms dotting the scenery in earth greens turning burned oranges. Well, at the moment things look more like blue on black on navy and ghost whites and grays thanks to unforgiving crime scene lighting.

Nodding his approval, he deems the dance going to choreography. He takes his exit, walks over to Flynn's crap heap of a department car (they are all like that, all just as crap due to the convergence of budget and hard use).

His idiot of a friend is already waiting, idly tapping the screen of his phone. Flynn is a mile off, thinking God knows what and all Provenza wants is to hit him over the head. He doesn't react to the opening door, not to the person coming to sit next him, not to the impatient tap on the dashboard.

Everything is gone all pear-shaped for a year now, increasingly so by every passing day.

At the exasperated sigh Flynn's phone disappears into a pocket and the keys (after a fumble) slide in the ignition. Always starting on the first go is the one redeeming feature for this car.

Provenza lets him drive in silence, even if these days the silence is different from what they are used to. The silence of the old was filled with 'you are so damn annoying, can't you do even this right?' that always was their secret code for an affectionate friendship. This new silence is pure distraction, the result of checking out, of a bad connection.

"So, what did she wear?" Provenza wonders aloud, not keen on wanting to hear the answer.

"Huh?"

"The woman of your dreams."

"Who, Sharon?"

The question surprises neither, but irritates both. Andy considers it a misspeak, a sign of his traitorous tongue liking the form of her name a little too much. Being right dismays Provenza for a change. Usually he wants to be right, but this time he would have rather been wrong.

"You said it, not me," he spits out.

Andy is silent, searching for the image of her amongst the flicking lights passing them by. The steering wheel under his fingers gives a clue more powerful bringing forth the memory of the uneven contrast between slick base and the soft thin lines radiating her body heat under his palm. Even the memory raises the warm glow up his hand as if she was still there.

"Silk. Raw silk. Dusty mauve or something." In anticipation of the exasperated call he is about to receive for his specificity, he adds, "You know, like gray but with color." Thinking of the whole ensemble, there is another little detail that gives him infinitely good memories, "Short."

"So not a lot to take off."

Andy shoots a scowl at his grumpy partner. The comments are getting increasingly spiteful, yet increasingly familiar to his own thoughts. It shouldn't be.

"Why are you interested?"

"Just figuring how long it takes."

"What?"

"Her changing at the moment, but you two undressing each other in general."

Something he has thought of, Andy isn't scared to admit to himself, but for now, that is not in the cards for their relationship. If there is a chance for that to change, that will be between them. He is fine with waiting to see how it will play out, even if his friend's attitude on the issue is getting tiresome.

If Andy sees a lot of unanswered questions when it comes to his and Sharon's relationship, there are at least as many to hers and Provenza's. Sometimes he acts as if her protective big brother, other times she is just the most annoying woman on the planet.

To Andy, at the moment, she is a friend as much as Provenza is and this constant talk of her like she should be in a completely another category with a different set of rules to them, is demeaning to both: to her and to their friendship.

"You should respect her a little more."

"Oh I respected her just fine before she went crazy."

"Look, there's nothing wrong with me — with us doing what we like — if we like to do anything at all — as long as it stays out of the office."

"As long as it does stay out." He doesn't miss his friend's weak attempt at calling her just a friend under the radar, but still he takes on the unpleasant task of reiterating the rules of the situation for the idiot, "But you have to be absolutely sure. Sure enough to tell the world without shirking. If you do this, this is the last woman for you, ever. Unless she sees sense and throws you back."

"Yeah. That's something we need to discuss alone."

They had skirted the issue, very briefly and in no certain terms, and on some level Andy feels she is not ready to go all the way — in words or thoughts, certainly not in deeds. He knows he should let her be, even if just for a while. At the heart of things there is no pressing reason to push the issue. The need is there, hot and hard, but not urgent.

Not even the 'last ever' scares him. Sure it is grand and awe-inspiring, sure it intimidates. A life without risk is not much of a life. Only the thought of 'ever' in the sense that he has no idea what will happen after the heady phase is over brings him dread. He has no idea how they will make it work in the calm days that ultimately follow — the days when there is nothing new to try.

It is a long way off, and maybe it will never get there. The relationship they have right now delights him in unexpected ways every day.

"And if you noticed," he says before getting completely lost in his own thoughts, "it was you, not me, who brought our relationship up on-duty."

-x-x-x-

She already sits on a bench with her knees together under a blue paper gown that design-wise reminds everybody of garbage bags. He always imagines a mint and menthol scent surrounding her when she wears one of those. It is some weird combination of lights and color and strange smells of the sterile rooms wafting into the depressing corridor as well as odd memories he can't place.

On her lap there is a folder, open, balanced precariously, a too gray photo attached on a sheet of paper with a clip. She is studying, like always.

Briefly he wonders if she prepares that well for everything. Off-duty, his experiences are limited, but every time they have done something new, she always knows what to expect and how to approach the situation and makes relevant small-talk from the minute they get together. On the third time they ever saw a film together (granted, it wasn't the third film; it was the first; the previous two instances having been a ballet and a play) she came so well-prepared he had to stop her chattering and ask if she was going to tell him the whole film or should he see something for himself, because if she was, they could save on parking if they just skipped the whole thing.

He still remembers the sweet smile she had shed as an apology. He wouldn't mind seeing it again now.

The smile he gets is all the more restrained. Still a sliver of warmth in the cold and harsh surroundings, a faint reminder what he wanted earlier. They exchange tiny nods and he goes to get a gown of his own.

It doesn't take long for the doors to open and Dr. Morales to invite them come through. The girl Andy saw earlier is on the table, slightly better looking for the collecting of samples and a quick wash. The pigtails are gone, her hair simple and pulled back smooth by clean water. Most of the stench is also gone, due to the simple act of changing scene.

Dr. Morales launches straight into cataloguing what they know before anything more invasive has been done to the girl. Hearing the preliminary observations, the case starts to sound both comforting as well as disappointing.

She is younger than the rest, having even less of the physical markers than the rest, died more recently than the rest. No defensive wounds, no nothing, but a mouth filled with water and dirt.

"I don't think she's one of your girls," he finishes the list of his first findings, which, truthfully, was not that long to begin with.

"Why?"

Sharon wants to be absolutely sure, even if everything she already heard needs little confirmation.

"There's nothing substantial on her body. No rash, no scars. Well, a few, but old, small, the kind everybody has if they were active as kids." The doctor looks down on the girl, that sadly vacant look you give when there is nothing more you can do and you know that's a crying shame. "I'd say she drowned and that's it."

"Accidentally?"

"No indications of anything else. No defensive wounds, no smoking guns to mention, so to speak. Would help if we knew who she is."

Sharon nods, knowing that would be the point where the case starts.

"In the mean time," she says, "diatoms."

"Already wrote it."

Knowing at least if she drowned where she was found would be a great help. It's a matter of waiting, but there is little else to do.

She sheds one last sad look on the girl laying where she really shouldn't and steps around Andy to follow the Doctor making notes next to the sideboard.

"Can we go through the other girls," Sharon asks not waiting him to finish writing (she knows he'll forget them being in the room if left to himself), "in detail?"

His head snaps up, the expression minutely veering on surprise before he returns to his notes.

"Sure. I don't know if it's much use, but how is day after tomorrow for you? I should have all of them ready by two."

"Two, tomorrow."

"No, tomorrow is full. Best I can do is day after, two."

"Twelve."

"No, Captain," he looks up to reiterate at her, "two."

"Ten."

She is not backing down, but he knows she means no harm. He would like to give in to her bargaining, but there are only a limited number of hours in a day.

"Even if you say eight, it will be two. Or someone else doing it."

"Worth a shot." Tilting her head, she smirks, quick and reassuring, and it makes Andy smirk at her way of putting people at ease with simple gestures. When she wants to, that is. "Do your best work," Sharon smiles and nods before turning to leave, "Doctor."

"Always. We are all anxious to get them home."

Andy waits her to pass him by a half a step before rounding behind her right shoulder. His hands come out of their habitual bunch only when they approach the door and unbidden he reaches past her to push the door open. Sharon is already grabbing at her gown and suddenly Andy realizes these days she never acknowledges him at all even when he is practically falling into her space.

He chuckles at the discovery and almost chuckles twice as hard when she doesn't notice that either.

Instead, soon as her gown lands in the collection bin, she leans back against the wall right next to the swinging doors of the dark world they just emerged from and heaves out the air in her lungs.

"She's not one."

It comes out as an expression of relief, but he hears the crack in the 'not'. Too many young women dead recently.

"No, probably not," he offers a hollow consolation.

Andy steps to fully face her and watches the flickering of her eyes while the captain thinks ahead step after step. It oddly reminds him of chess and wonders why he has never asked if she plays with Rusty. The thought brings forth another of how good she would be at poker. Mentally he makes a note to ask her next time they are together off-duty. It is unprofessional, but he sheds a thought to whether she's not schooled enough to let nothing slip and he never noticed before or if now he's just allowed to see the little clues he has been picking up on lately.

Suddenly he sees a variation in the familiar flickering of her eyes. It is not the same clear, almost glassy way she uses to mentally mark positions in her thought process. Her eyes look bigger, darker and slower than normal. The green is deeper and saturated.

The process gets halted and the foreign green lands on his eyes.

"Yes?" Sharon waits for his reaction that never comes. The urgency in his look is missing, and she is ready to say he is either getting a good idea about something or just plain thinking about nothing much at all. "Andy, you're staring."

"Your eyes," he jumps to reply, distantly, "They're different."

"Oh." She doesn't seem fazed at all. Only the way her hand searches for a pocket in the air and then gives up sends a message of her not being as unaffected as she tries to be. "Didn't wash my face before I left," she discloses. "Is it bad?"

"No, no."

What could be bad about green, he thinks to himself, no matter the shade? Sharon wears a lot of make-up and he isn't sure why. Granted, it makes her eyes bigger and more vibrant, but there is nothing wrong with how they look any other time he has seen them. Not that he has been looking at them lately, Andy is remiss in admitting. He has focused on looking into her eyes to notice small details like color and eyeshadow.

Now he wonders whether they would look lighter or darker without anything at all.

"You're still staring."

"I know," he says with a boyish grin as he leans one hand next to her shoulder against the wall. "Not sorry."

The nod comes before the words or the gesture register; he smirks at the expression taking over her face at the realization. It is an effective mix of chafe, bewilderment and amusement. While alone, his little flirty overtures don't bother her at all. They usually end up being more of the things she doesn't acknowledge at all. Clearly the line between what is alright out of city property and inside one still exists, acutely.

To say he cares much, would be to lie.

He elaborates, "Trying to think why I didn't notice earlier."

Sharon's eyes drift up to the ceiling in a wordless cue.

She could suggest the bright lights for bringing up this lapse in his observational skills, but he is too busy thinking he could pin the slip on short skirts, one in particular.

Even as her eyes return front, he is still studying.

The way he looks at her — not the way he is accustomed to looking her straight in the eyes but this inexplicable scrutiny — makes her fidget. She can't get her head together to finish thinking and the whole thing doesn't sit well, Andy notices but just can't help himself.

With a smirk and a roll of her eyes she tries to shake this intent attention off and when it fails, she tries laughing it off.

"Well, don't notice now either, Lieutenant," Sharon says as she slides away from her spot against the wall. She bunches her arms, nods in the direction of the folder lying on the bench beside them and starts walking away.

Andy can only watch after her. The strut makes her heels clack against the empty corridor with a small echo. Her black skirt is longer than the one he liked a lot earlier, but it, luckily, is not from the longest end of her spectrum.

It reminds him of something.

A few yards down the hall she slows down to shoot a demure look over her shoulder. It wakes him from his trance to grab the lone folder and hurry after her, mentally appreciating the flirty glance.

"Allow me tell you something else I've noticed," he leans closer to say as soon as he catches up with her.

"Andy, —"

He's glad she doesn't see the grin he has to fight off at her tone.

"All the girls wore black bikinis," he says and risks meaningfully looking down her legs, "and none had their shoes."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** _If this seemed familiar, thanks for reading "Small Windows"... :) And yes, I am jumping the gun and posting this before having the chance to properly edit stuff but ATM I'm more focused on completion. :)_


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

The morning has opened like any other in recent history. The Sun came up early, hotter than it should. Everyone is anticipating a sweaty day: the light streaming through the windows of their murder room floor backing up every fear. The airconditioner has recycled the air this morning way too often making it dry and dusty, the kind that sticks to your throat.

The feeling is not helped by the case they have waiting to eat their time. Or, as they learnt yesterday before retiring for the short night, cases. Sanchez and Sykes have been filling out the extra board Sharon had requested for in anticipation of the case staying with them for some time. Last time they used the board mounted on the wall, only to have it erased two days later to recount another sad story.

"So, to recap, what do we know?"

Sharon stands in the middle of the room, the parade rest impressive without the hands. As per her custom, they have been shoved in the bottoms of her jacket pockets, the tension making her back nicely visible. As per his custom, Andy checks the backs of her taut calves the position always highlighted.

"Not much, Ma'am," Sykes says turning around at the board. She clicks the blue marker capped and exchanges the thing for her notebook before launching on saying aloud what she had written down on the board. "Four Jane Does, three likely homicide victims, one possible accidental. First the three here," she says tapping the row starting at the top left corner, "Age looks like twenty to thirty years. All found in water. No common physical attributes, no IDs, no geographical connection."

"Would radio isotope analysis help?" Andy hears Sharon interrupt. She twists at the waist to face Tao, "Mike?"

Andy's eyes pick up something strange in her movement. What, he has no idea; the clue too sudden. His eyes narrow to wait for another.

"Uh, possibly," Mike says stroking his head, "But it's expensive."

"At some point we need to start forgetting about the money. Last resort?" Sharon nods to commit the idea of constructing their victims' identities through analyzing the invisible traces their diets left on their bodies to memory and twists back. There is a twitch at her knee. Again, it is too quick for Andy to determine if it was the muscle in her thigh or her knee extending. "Please, continue."

"First victim." Sykes taps on the board between the depressingly gray photo and a date, the six numbers in series of twos. "TOD 'recent'. Very badly decayed, a piece of her skin removed, scraped off with a sharp knife. No head found, right leg missing from thigh down. Other minor missing parts. Burn mark, but the other could be there or not. COD 'too hard to tell'. Prelims by Harbor, waiting info from Morales."

Sharon shifts, pulls her left hand from her pocket.

"Second victim. TOD 'recenter'. Starting to bloat, burn marks and a strip of rash on her thigh. COD marked down as a heart attack. West Valley handled the prelims. Again, Morales and the second look will tell us more. Clothes, worn down, but there. Casual, a tank top, jean cutoffs and possibly a men's plaid shirt. A black bikini instead of underwear. Tags missing, cut off by her, probably."

Andy watches Sharon flex her fingers a couple of times. Now he knows something is off without a shadow of a doubt. She is fidgety and she never is. Well, when there is no pressure on her as a person. In private, a little fidgeting is not unheard. These little messages are new and instead of fully listening on the recount of how much they don't know, Andy is suddenly beating himself over for not insisting on that personal 'good morning chat' they sometimes indulge in.

Sykes, keeps on reading, "Third, TOD 'very recent'. Little damage due to water, rash again on her arm. No DNA matches for any of them. No fingerprint matches. Everyone has only basic dental work, the x-rays are being circulated. Well, for the two later victims."

Discreetly, Sharon glances over her shoulder. On quick reaction Andy pretends not having watched her hand, and deems the act of staring at her hair misleading enough.

"All have two burn marks," Sykes continues to run through the findings this far, "small and somewhat indistinctive. Definitely not fully healed. Each about an inch across. Some are harder to make out, the ones that can be seen better too generic to determine for sure. Anything from sports logos to horoscopes." She looks up and across the room to Andy. "And as Lieutenant Flynn remarked last night, unlike the girl found yesterday, the other three have bikinis. At different stages of decay, of course. No shoes to match our victims found either."

Sharon nods. She barely meets Lieutenant Tao's eyes before he offers further details. "Missing persons comes up with two thousand, eight hundred and seventy-three names. This year. In LA. So, pretty much useless. But will start looking later."

This too is acknowledged with a nod before the Captain redirects everyone's attention to Provenza.

"Lieutenant?"

"No meaningful evidence. No confessions. No leads." Provenza swivels in his chairs and looks over the board. Practically no facts, "Captain, is this even a case for us?"

"Yes, this most definitely is," she answers without pausing to blink. Not two days ago they had wrapped the latest case of inheritance not coming soon enough, but there was something about this case that never sat right. The lack of details, the lack of the same details, three times smelled like a pattern. "The fact that we can't solve it is not going to be a matter of lack of trying," she says with conviction.

"There are other cases for us."

"Yes, and I am not saying work only on this. I am saying, however, that we'll keep looking, we'll keep thinking." She turns to sweep over the room. "The board stays here, and I want everyone look at it at least once every day. If you get an idea, we'll talk about it." When her back turns, Andy notices how despite the emphatic gesturing her right hand is still deep in the pocket. "What about our fourth victim?"

"She's younger," Sanchez informs while everyone glances at the picture of an all-American girl next door set a little aside on the board, "a teenager. Tao borrowed a microscope at the lab and says the diatoms match."

"They do," the lieutenant in question interjects.

"Official results come when they come. She probably died in the past two days before she was found. We did a search of the pond's surroundings, no bag, ID or towel or anything."

Provenza perks up.

"Towel? You mean to say people actually swim there?"

The prospect is horrifying; the mud getting sticky and full of dead vegetation even as they spoke. Sure there was sand and some water, but not the kind inspiring some sweet Summer frolicking.

"They do, Sir. The pond's a popular hangout for local kids."

"Geez, the stench!"

"Obviously the drought has affected it a bit."

"'A bit'!"

Sanchez's lips quirk at the characteristic grumbling of the old man, but he quickly moves on, "Anyway, we are doing a house-to-house today, starting with the closest neighborhood. Two blocks and then we'll regroup."

"How does it look?" Sharon asks. The tone in her voice is eerily close to tired, but Andy knows better. It is not tired, it is something else, very close, but not tired.

"Like a lot of work. The park isn't big, but big enough."

"Do you need help?"

"If you can spare one, Ma'am, wouldn't mind a helping hand on the organizational side. Bodies I have."

An Academy class was roped in to help with going through the area to ask the preliminary questions of 'do you know her' to save time and the team's feet.

"Alright." Sharon turns on her heel, "Andy, what are you doing today?"

"DA's with you," he replies not missing a beat, but still somewhat distracted by the private collection of oddities in her, "After... Having another stab at missing persons. Concentrating on the second girl, the rash could be mentioned. Worth as big a try as anything."

She smiles, tilts her head. As an unfortunate side effect her right sleeve moves a fraction and Andy thinks the shadow it leaves on her hand is wrong. Too dark, too purple. He wants to focus on that, but the way she so unlike her work self almost sing-songs, "Guess again," and turns back to her original position cuts him short.

"Detective, meet your new assistant," Sharon tells for Sanchez.

He smirks and Andy does a half-hearted salute, "Here to serve."

His playfulness is lacking; he would rather spend some time with Sharon, even if it were only the short ride over to one boring meeting about stats and figures and strategies in the name of streamlining the processes of crimesolving and prosecution. The quick-to-anger part of him wants to take this as a rejection after a most enjoyable evening the night before (for which he only got a perfunctory 'good night' just like everyone else) but the sensible part of him, that part he wishes were bigger if for no other reason than it pleases her, tells him this is a Captain giving orders to a Lieutenant, not a woman telling a man anything. Not in any way, not even if the recipients both go by 'Andy'.

"Good." Appearing to miss his, what Andy assumes from the quirked eyebrows of both Tao and Provenza to be reeking, reluctance, Sharon settles the matter with final orders, "So, Amy, DA's with me. Mike, try to come up with guesses what the burn marks could be. Lieutenant Provenza, your room."

-x-x-x-

Not minutes later Andy follows her to her office. She is walking around with an open file folder in her left hand, her right hidden by her side. That doesn't surprise him, but the way she shoots him a fraction of a smile that turns into a yawn in the two steps she takes to sit down does. He remembers not a single time he has seen her yawn on-duty.

"Sorry," she says from behind her desk, resting her left arm over the open folder, "didn't get too much sleep."

"Yeah. No one does."

There comes no comment for or against from her, only the level look she uses for indicating a closed subject. He watches her waiting and the tense little smile taking over her face tells him to 'get on with it'.

"So, you demoting me?"

Good a place to start as any.

"Excuse me?"

"Sanchez's 'assistant'."

"It does him good to be in charge."

"Yeah."

"And it does you some good to do something concrete," she says poking the folder a little further down her desk while crossing her legs. "Your mood is bad. You're brooding."

The analysis can't be disputed, but hearing it in these surroundings makes Andy short on some level. He feels a certain lack of enthusiasm to hear comments on it from Captain Raydor since, in part, it is Sharon inspiring his broody tendencies.

"Are you saying that as my Captain or my friend?"

"As your friend, for now."

His simple nod is born out of the immediate way with which she replies. That small bit of wordless communication diffuses his doubts better than anything else.

"Here's the file you wanted for the DA's," he says in the way of getting down to the real reason he followed her, "I've marked the relevant stats. I thought you'd like to write the notes yourself."

Sharon's eyes land on the wheat colored object he doesn't bother offering. For a moment he thinks she sees through his attempts to mask the asinine way he has been less than professional where she is concerned for the past two days. Strictly speaking, he didn't have to come over now either if it wasn't for his damned curiosity.

While he is busy making a mental note of apologizing for yesterday's totally uncalled- for flirty scene back at the morgue, her eyes flicker up to his.

"Could you?"

"Yeah. Just thought that since I'm not going —"

"Doesn't matter. I trust you."

"Okay."

Andy takes a seat across her desk, leans forward to pick a pen from her desk and folds one ankle over the opposite knee for support before immersing himself in a sheet of statistics. He more feels than sees Sharon looking around the office before settling her focus down on the folder she had out as he walked in. Andy starts making the notes, the few words the report doesn't say already. Placing a pen under what he feels is the most important sentence in the whole of the report in preparation to underline, he looks up and is surprised to see Sharon looking at him with unfocused eyes.

"You want highlights or underlines?"

Her eyes focus as she succintly replies, "Highlights."

Andy keeps looking at her, pen poised, but Sharon ignores what just happened with a steely connection. He thinks something's off again, maybe with her eyes, but knows from the look he's receiving now is not the time to dwell.

"You better do them yourself so you get what you like."

"No, no, you've seen mine. I'm sure you know how I like it."

He raises a brow at the turn of words before he has the chance to berate his mind for yet again thinking inappropriate thoughts around her. She doesn't notice, so he reaches for the highlighter and starts doing as he was told. Yes, he does know how Sharon likes this particular thing. First rule: limit the number of words. Second: key phrases should be circled with relevant comments on the margin. That and a lot of arrows Andy doesn't know how to do to show priorities and causalities.

Provenza walks in and slams a pile of files and forms on the desk. Andy doesn't stop his work, only glances up without raising his head. He is used to this. Sharon's reaction isn't that much more pronounced.

Provenza scowls first at Flynn, then at the Captain. His perfectly good entrance was, once again, not worth of the candle. Flynn at least dismissed him because of paying attention to something that looked both important as well as boring. The Captain, however, was hardly working.

He watches the clear absence of getting on with things, then decides to rush things along with a gesture towards the pile he just lugged over.

"Could you at least sign the rest of these?"

"Uh, yeah," Andy hears Sharon say, but doesn't know she is not distracted because of her reading, "Thank you, Lieutenant."

Provenza keeps the scowl for a beat, yet nothing happens.

"No time like the present as they say."

"No. Thank you, I'll get them to you. Today."

What Andy thinks as the sparkling off-duty smile in her voice gets him to look up and as he notices his assumption correct, he raises a brow.

Provenza sighs and throws his arms up. As he exists, Sharon's smile follows him all the way through the door and when her eyes slide over Andy's, she pretends not to to notice the pointed look, the raised brow or anything at all. Andy watches her moving on to feigning reading. Wordlessly, he closes the folder, offers it pointedly for her right side.

Sharon's eyes come to meet the closed folder and her left hand resting on the desk raises to do the same. As soon as it does, Andy offers the folder even more to her right. She pauses, but instead of picking up her right hand from behind the desk, she leans over and reaches further with her left.

Andy pulls the folder back on his lap.

"You can't write, can you?"

"No, no," she says with a minute laughter, "your notes are fine. You're already familiar with the details. Quicker."

"So," he says taking to his feet and opens a folder from the pile Provenza left for her, then pushes it in front of her and offers a pen, "sign these."

Sharon watches the pen, her eyes turning to pleading. Before she finishes a hum, Andy lets his arm drop.

"Sharon, you need to go home."

"I'm fine."

"Yeah, otherwise fine but can't move your arm."

"I can." Raising her right arm, she curls it from her elbow. The movement highlights how rigid her hand is from wrist down, how the bruise he spotted earlier is spreading.

"Sharon, your hand is turning purple."

"It's fine. It'll pass."

"You need to tell Provenza the signatures aren't happening."

"They are. I'll be fine."

He stares at her, eyes cold and clear, mouth drawn to a line.

"I'll take something now," she tries, "and when I'm back from the DA's, I can manage signing them."

"Yeah, that's all we need. You signing off on things while drugged out of your mind."

"I can hardly do any damage by signing off on things I've already approved, that everyone else has read and agreed to, that will go through an experienced officer before getting filed." Their eyes lock in another contest of wills, neither willing to relent a fraction of inch from their position. "It's just a hand, it'll get better."

"Okay," Andy finally grates out. He can see she knows this is not giving in, only a new direction of attack. Her defenses are already fortified. "How are you going home? You can't drive with one hand."

"I can, but I won't," she says all too easy. In an instant he knows she is trying to win by staying calm and reasonable, but he does not care.

"Rusty's picking me up at eight," she says for firmer proof.

"Eight!"

His outburst makes her mumble, "Half nine, latest, quarter to," then meet his eyes with all her resolve, "After work."

"You are not sitting here for thirteen hours!"

"Andy, I was here by eight. It's not thirteen hours."

"Twelve. That's better? Twelve hours and twenty minutes."

The moment she gears for a scoff and a saccharine smirk, he rounds the chair.

"I'm driving you home. No arguments." Not giving her a chance for any reply, he stalks out muttering to himself, "Eight!"

-x-x-x-

When the updates on the house-to-house search start coming in, hope is not the first feeling taking over the room. 'Maybe' seems to be the most common response until ninety minutes in when the 'maybes' turn into 'yeah, I've seen her' on the east side of the park.

"One of those 'd' names," Sanchez reports their most helpful clue to the team standing in the conference room map in hand, "We ran through the usual list, dianas and dorthys, but no one remembered."

A collective groan travels through the room. The chuckle and 'yeah' on the other end might be real.

The muffled conversation traveling the line is real.

"Excuse me Ma'am, hold on a minute," Sanchez breaks the murmur of voices and the team waits with bated breaths.

Tao makes a few notes on the map and folds the edges down making the sheet easier to handle before Sanchez is back.

"The best clue this far is from one Ms. Eileen Renard, 78, says the girl looks like the girl 'next door but one, over the street', but she isn't sure."

"And?" Provenza emphatically gestures for the gray speaker in the middle of the table to go on.

Again there is a muffled exchange of words, then clear, "We'll call you back soon, Ma'am."

With a nod Sharon sends the team to back what they were doing while she takes the map and studies it. Tao has marked the lines where 'no clue' turned to 'maybe' and where 'maybe' started to be 'yeah'. About quarter a mile to east, the area a suburban style community of short cul de sac blocks. Not a bad way to live.

A few minutes later her mobile rings and answering it, she walks straight to the murder room and transfers the call to speaker phone. Provenza gives her a dirty look as she places the device on the corner of his desk. Sharon ignores him and rests her hip against the surface as well.

"The people on the left side said 'possibly' and 'who knows every girl in LA'. Names they didn't have."

"To share, they mean," Provenza grumbles in the usual disbelief.

"Yeah," Andy pitches in. "I'm pretty sure the people closest to the main road would know the names, but didn't feel like sharing for some reason. Same story with the first house on their side. They told us that no one lives next door and the 'for sale' notice seems to confirm. The other empty on their side of the street is an older lady who's at the hospital, lives alone. The last family moved here last week, yet to meet the neighbors but know there is a teen girl here."

"So that leaves the neighboring three houses empty," Sanchez rolls on seamlessly, "we sent the addresses to Tao —"

"I have them. Looking for owners."

"— and I think this is as far as we're going to get here, Ma'am."

"Yes, Detective, send the others home with thanks."

"Yes, Ma'am. We'll wrap up."

Sharon ends the call, tacks the map on the board and turns to look at Tao.

"Alright, here it is," he says almost on cue, "Number 1148, owned by a company overseas. Number 1150, owned by a Mr. Amos Breer, 58. Number 1152, owned by Mr. and Mrs. Harris." He pauses for few more taps on the keyboard. "Mr. Breer and the Harrises have listed the address as their home address. Number 1148 comes up empty, but still searching."

Cul de sacs, how appropriate, Sharon thinks as her eyes drift to the extra whiteboard holding the details of their other case. This case seems as destined to run into dead-ends as that one. An ID or a witness on scene would have been nice.

"Any information on a teenaged girl?" she asks in general.

"Looking, Ma'am," Sykes pipes up.

Keyboards rattle for few long moments.

"Two girls," Sykes says a little distracted, "No d-names. One is Sarah Lydia, 15, the other Tina Adele, 16." Like a failed puppy she looks up, walks to their board to look at the photo and adds simply, "Neither is from next door but one from Ms. Renard."

"What are the odds!" Provenza comments throwing his hands up.

Sykes studies the map and her mood seems to improve slightly.

"Both live, technically, kitty-corner to her," she says tapping the street, "1148 and 1152, so Sarah —"

"Wilkinson," Tao supplies.

"— Sarah Wilkinson, age fifteen, or Tina Harris, age sixteen," she says and updates the names under the photo.

Sharon glances her watch in order to device a plan. It's too late to go to the girls' school today.

"It's almost quarter to five. Well, let's stay on the street and wait for either family to appear."

The room murmurs their assent, Sharon nods for them to get on with their other tasks and retreats to her office with her cell to forward the plan.

While she waits for the call, Tao brings a sheaf of papers. For one second Sharon is horrified she needs to read and sign those too — the pile Provenza brought in in the morning stands accusatory next to her desk phone, only half gone. The hand is stiff and tired.

Luckily, the new pile, after a five minute explanation, turns out to be the most relevant suggestions for each burn mark on their three other victims. Sharon thanks for the preliminaries, caveats and instructions, and soon immerses herself in the list. Every page starts with a photograph of the burn in question on the left, then a list of symbols on the right in the same scale.

On page 23, after numerous painful notes and some crafty left-hand ticks and crosses, Sharon's phone rings.

She glances the screen, the white letters proclaiming 'Lt Andy Flynn' and she answers with a 'hi, Andy'.

"Tina Adele came home," he starts.

"Okay. Did you show her the photograph?"

"Yeah. Sarah Lydia, went by Liddy. They were friends, since kindergarten when Liddy moved here. Her parents are out of town."

"And left a fifteen-year-old home alone?"

"Yeah. Tina's parents knew, had a deal to check on the girl. Liddy spent the weekend until Tuesday morning at theirs," he rattles and Sharon knows he is reading notes, "She was going to go spend time with her cousins so when Tina went over on Wednesday and she didn't open, Tina sent a text. Liddy replied 'out, I'll see you later. Sleep-over Monday? Weekend with cousins, frowny face'."

The unasked 'and?' hangs on the line but he doesn't continue.

"A teenage girl doesn't text her best friend for two days and that's that?"

"Well, as Tina says, Liddy had a problem with phones and while she liked her cousins, their parents weren't 'as fun'. It was common for them to try weaning Liddy from her cell."

"They were close?"

"Very." He takes a deep breath and continues, "We tried to contact the parents, no luck. Should be away for another week still."

"Welcome home."

"Yeah."

"Well, at least we know who she is now."

"Yeah."

Slim consolation, Sharon thinks as she goes to update the team and the board. Sarah Lydia is not one, which is both a relief and a disappointment. There are still three girls waiting, their case just as unsolved as yesterday.

-x-x-x-

"Will you be alright?" Andy asks as he waits with her coat and laptop case in hand for Sharon to unlock the door to her home.

"Of course. Why wouldn't I be?"

He looks at the discoloration and the redder line in the middle of it he knows are under the sleeve of her jacket. No one has mentioned it, she hasn't offered any explanations during the day. Provenza even acted all Provenza towards her: grumbling about unsigned paperwork, about her being as much use as an unicorn in an undercover operation.

For the sixteenth time he searches for the best way to bring the conversation around.

"Andy," she gently stops his thoughts, "it's just a hand. My other one still works."

"Yeah. Can you eat?"

"Do you want to come in and feed me?" Sharon looks at him, up and down with those eyes that often make him blurt out something he shouldn't.

This time, having his own interests, he is above such confessions. While she reaches to open the door, he rushes past her unappreciative of the sarcasm she so willingly offers.

"In the matter of fact, yes," he answers from inside her condo.

Disbelieving, Sharon mutters to the empty corridor, "Come in then."

Andy is already depositing her things on the armchair closes to the door and he tops the pile with his own jacket. Assessing the scene, he removes his tie and starts rolling his sleeves.

Before Sharon can open her mouth, he is well on his way darting to her bathroom. The less chance he gives her to object to anything, the higher the chances she would demean herself with appreciating help, maybe even asking for it. She disregards how much he wants to be there for anything. He knows it is due to her independence and self-reliance and all that crap he couldn't care less about right now.

Oddly, there seems to be a lot of things he cared very little about recently.

Getting back from his trip to the bathroom — which, in all honesty, was at least partly a sham to make her accept him being there as a given — Andy stops mid-throw with the ball of his tie to note his jacket isn't where he left it in an undignified heap. Instead, it has moved to the dining area, neatly draped over one of the chairs.

The smirk can't be helped.

He walks to drop the ball into a pocket and turns to find Sharon in the kitchen. She's lost her jacket in favor of a cardigan and is already cooking. Andy watches her place the knife on a vegetable by supporting her right wrist, then placing the left palm over the blade and pressing.

"What are you doing?"

"It's called cooking," she answers matter-of-fact. "The act of preparing produce for human nourishment."

"You don't have left-overs? Tv-dinners? Anything?"

"No, I don't."

"What was Rusty going to eat?"

"This."

"You gotta be kidding me."

Surely she is trying to send him some message. He assumes she does know about takeaway.

He holds his tongue and she does the circus trick again. This time the stack slides and makes her push it firmer together again before applying force.

He sighs.

"Move."

"Excuse me?"

"Step away from the counter." He inches closer, affecting a scowl first at her hand — which seems more vivid and thicker, then straight into her eyes. "Step, away."

Sharon hesitates, but leaves the cutting board and the knife as she steps aside.

"Fine."

He scowls at her until it forces her on the other side of the breakfast bar.

"You're strange," she sighs climbing on a stool.

"Yeah? If the roles were reversed, would you leave me alone to starve?"

"Yes."

"Really cold, Sharon, really cold." Andy shots her a teasing smirk and continues where she left off. "Goes to show, my daughter's a poor judge of character."

"How so?"

"She told me you're 'the warmest person she's ever met'."

"Really?"

The serious surprise in her tone makes him pause; this shouldn't be news.

"Yeah. She likes you."

Dumbfounded, she fumbles to return the sentiment. Andy ignores her inarticulacy and keeps going with his playful banter.

"Have to start telling her about your unattractive side."

"I have one?" she asks sweetly, his quick grin having gotten her on the same course.

"Like the moon."

"Usually when men call women 'moon' it is very nice and romantic. Not so with you."

"Yeah? Guess I'm different from your other men."

"Obviously."

He adores the teasing laughter she tries to suppress and wants to hear more of it.

"Have you considered it might have something to do with your attitude?" he suggests.

"My attitude is just fine."

"Obviously not if you can't even get me to quote Omar Khayyam to you."

"Like you would."

"'King, my king, how many men like me, in the rosy fellowship of dancers and drinkers and jesters stand aloof, an onlooker, a garden, a wine-jar, and a lute are sweeter than Paradise with its streams and houris.'" He pauses to go over what he just said, thinking it sounds off, but with a shrug deems it inconsequential. This is about laughs, after all. "Or something."

Her suppression fails and a snort escapes. "Or something?" she mocks.

"Don't laugh, the next part is the relevant part about moon and you."

"I'll take your word for it," she says just as she's falling into laughter. He has to watch.

"Romance is totally wasted on you."

"Yes." She flashes a smirk. "Or something."

Sharon goes to fill a glass with water. Hovering behind him, she gets lost in her own thoughts and lets a lingering titter escape.

"Sit down, you're making me nervous," Andy barks, hoping the good-humored bite is heeded by the soft hairs in his neck as well. It isn't, as another laugh escapes her.

"You're awfully bossy today," she replies and he doesn't have to see her to hear the eye roll. Still, she walks back to her seat.

"And you're a stubborn —"

Meeting her sparkly eyes, his rhythm falters.

"A stubborn what?" she prompts.

Not that he doesn't appreciate their snappy banter, but he can't remember when things started to be like this. At first, she was cautious, he was petrified. Then they both got comfortable. Now they banter with dizzying accuracy and timing.

It's a damn good sign, one he revels in a beat too long if judged by the expectant green eyes and the wisp of a hum directed at him.

He falls on feigning hostility.

"Didn't they give you proper drugs? You know, the kind that would knock you out?"

"And then what?"

"And then you'd be reasonably cooperative."

"Andy," she sighs, "it's just a hand! Not even that, it's a damn wrist."

That sounded like an easy opening, yet he stands back. It's not a difficult question — "Sharon, what happened?" — but he finds the answer won't matter much. He would still be here. And if he did ask, she could balk and start enforcing boundaries and all that crap he isn't too fond of.

As she says, it's just a hand. Not even that, a damn wrist. It's not broken; it's bruised and swollen and looks a lot like an impact injury with the sharp red line across the side, inch and a half from the normally delicate curve of her bones.

It's not the delicate curve of her anything that wakes him up from his internal risk analysis as much as it is the delicious scent of her — and this time it is pleasantly the scent of her and not just her perfume — not inches away.

"May I help, please? This is my house after all."

Andy turns to scrutinize her, knowing if he allows her to do something, she will use her right hand. Looking down at the ingredients confirms most to be two-hand jobs.

"Depends. Where's your rice?"

Sharon points past his shoulder, with her right hand. He heeds the direction but not before squinting at her.

"Stop doing that."

Unsurprisingly, she rolls her eyes.

"Chicken?"

"Yes. In the fridge."

"Stock? Any?"

"No. But the bouillon cubes are with the rice."

"Sharon," he gasps, holding his chest, "don't you ever say those words again. Breaks my heart."

"Ha ha."

"Okay, we'll make one. You can take a nap while I do it. Call your doctor."

"I'm not going to nap. And I'm certainly not calling a doctor."

While she looks on, unamused, he puts a pot on the stove, brings up vegetables and quickly slices and dices them in small bits.

"Very impressive."

"Hey, this is the full package. Dinner and a show."

Her posture relaxes for chuckles and he puts the unnecessary ingredients away.

"Okay, here's your job," Andy says returning to the stove and winks her over. He offers her a turner, shakes his head when she offers her right hand. By placing his fingers on her shoulder he pulls her in front of him. "Risotto," he breathes over her shoulder. "First step, stock. Keep stirring. Under no circumstances are you to lift anything with your right hand. If you do, I'm sending you to your room. If there's a fire, you're letting the place burn down. Got it?"

"I should throw you out."

"Yeah, good thing I'm bigger than you and you're a hand down." Unnecessarily he keeps studying her work, the carrots swirling around. "Besides," he adds stepping away, "if you do, your kid goes hungry."

"Yeah," she breathes out demurely, the contentiousness in her totally missing.

In near silence, Andy does the rest of the prep, pulls out the tableware while Sharon meticulously sticks to the details of her assigned tasks. He needs only simple gestures and short words to direct her along his plan. Short chats are all they get and more often than not, it is Sharon who lets the conversation fade. Usually they are a little more talkative off-duty; tonight the words seem harder, superfluous.

As Andy adds another ladle of their stock in the beginnings of a vegetable risotto, he sees the corners of her eyes have tightened.

She shifts for the fifth time in the past thirty seconds.

"Your hand's hurting?"

"Yeah," she swallows, "Perhaps I couldn't have done this on my own."

He opens the freezer, wordlessly hands her a packet of peas.

"Do you want to sit down?"

"No, this tiny part of this I can do," she says placing her hand on the counter, settling it gingerly over the peas.

"I can feed you if you rather rest, no problem."

"No," she smiles meeting his eyes, "I'm enjoying the company since it's here."

"Yeah?"

Andy thinks this might be the moment to revisit yesterday's conversation — or, rather, yesterday's intention to have a conversation.

He gauges Sharon's receptiveness from her eyes when her phone plings and the moment is gone. First she turns her eyes, then starts to reach for the device with her right hand.

Again she receives a scowl that makes her hand the turner over. She reads the message with a smile and hums.

"Rusty. He's been sent home early. Asks if he needs to pick me up."

Before she can swipe for the answer, he reminds her, "Left hand."

"Please. I'm going to use my hand the moment you leave, you know that, right?"

"Yeah. Maybe I should camp out on your sofa."

"I so want to hear when you have this conversation with Rusty."

Her tone is tenser than the rolled eyes imply she means for it to be. She might know it, for returning to her stirring she smirks and pats his back. Soon they fall in their familiar pattern, only to be interrupted first by him shooing her to finish the table setting while he fries the chicken and plates the risotto, then by the front door slamming.

"I'm home! Something smells great, Shar—"

The boy looks from a foreign jacket resting on the back of a chair to his foster mother standing beside the set table, hands gently clasped in front of her.

"Andy made us dinner."

"Uh, okay."

Sharon watches Rusty give them a sloppy wave and then stalk out to his room for his coming home routines. She hears the crash of his backpack landing on the floor, then the three footsteps to the bathroom.

She sighs and focuses back on Andy who acts as if everything went according to all the golden rules of conduct.

"I'm sorry, that was teenager for 'thank you'," Sharon says softly. She smooths her right middle finger with her left thumb and awkwardly glances backwards. To Andy, during the two beats she takes to stand there, she looks like she's shrunken two sizes. Then, in few confident strides she is passing him, reaching for glasses to finalize their table, pausing on the way just long enough to shed a breath of a kiss on his cheek. "And this is me."

It is so sudden, though not new, he has no reaction. Nodding for her receding back, he balances the ready-plated risottos (two in one hand, one in the other) and takes them to the table.

She is fiddling with the final details, bread and things, but as soon as he places the plates down on the mats, her eyes flit over them. Chicken on the left and at the end, vegetarian on the right.

In one smooth gesture she slides the chicken at the end next to the vegetarian. It results in some additional fiddling that gets done just as Rusty reappears. Better greetings are exchanges as they take their seats. Andy grins as filling her glass Sharon turns to look at him.

She looks away quickly and takes her fork in her right hand.

"Sharon."

Despite the responding sigh, the fork changes hands.

Andy glances at Rusty who has been suspiciously quiet since coming in.

"You're not saying anything about her hand?"

"No. Like, why should I?"

"She's in pain and she's still using it."

"Sharon's a grown woman. If she wants to be stupid, she can."

Andy is somewhat taken aback by the laconic hostility and Sharon's lack of response. He looks from mother to son. The air reeks of tension and none of them makes eye contact.

"Let me guess," he chuckles in understanding, "you've had this conversation?"

"Yes," they reply in discontent unison.

"It'll pass," Sharon adds.

Both Rusty and Andy sigh under their breath. Meeting each other's eyes over the table, they share a silent chuckle. Sharon misses her chance to react when they start an awkward small talk about their days. By the word they loosen up and soon Rusty is humorously complaining about being yelled at and Andy launches into another rant about Tao and Badge of Justice.

Sharon tries her best to derail both with a much telling glance and quick joke only to have Andy start telling about some silly case of his from twenty years ago. Which apparently Mike stole and now is going to be an episode on the show.

The second Sharon remembers the details of the case (him mistaking her for a prostitute, for a starter), she tries to shut him up. When it only gets Andy to mouth the word 'prostitute' to Rusty's mouthed 'what for?' she gives up, encourages him and calls the story funny.

Andy is pretty sure, not least based on the look she had on saying it, that she meant 'you tell it great'. A sentiment he can't shake off, when she hangs on his every word like a trained seal begging for a fish.

When clearing the table he gets down to the grounds for his mistake, she quickly derails him again.

"As fun as this smearing my character is, could we please change the subject?"

Andy pauses, mid-word, mid-step, and Rusty laughs on his way to the couch.

"Let's get to practicalities," he recovers and turns back to Rusty. "Tomorrow morning. When does your shift start?"

"Uh, eight thirty. In the morning."

"Okay, I'll come and pick her up then."

"What about getting her home? I'm off at eight."

"I'll get her home."

Andy nods and carries the rest of the dishes to the kitchen. He is met with Sharon's scowl.

"'She' has a name. And a will of her own."

"We know," the males echo and gesture at each other. Bonded.

She lets it slide with a squint at Andy. He lets that slide and gets to putting the last things away before gracefully making his exit. He has stayed long enough and Sharon looks more and more tired by the minute.

"Alright," Andy says after rolling his sleeves down and making all the right motions to leave. But not before this last effort to make her see sense. "Sharon, would you like to be picked up in the morning and then driven home at the close of business or will you rather have your boy wake up two hours early to drive you first downtown in morning rush hour traffic, then back north, be at work for thirteen hours, then do the same trip over again?"

She gives no reply, just walks past and in front of him to the door. Yet, reaching the last few feet around the entrance, she stops and lingers with no urgency until he reaches her.

"Yes," comes her reply, quiet, where 'thank you', 'good night' and 'goodbye' should have been.

"Yes what?" he asks and shrugs into his jacket.

"Yes come and pick me up. Thank you."

Her hands raise in want to help with his collar, but he shots her a 'not on your life' look before stepping in front of the mirror.

"You just like to be asked, don't you?" he speculates with a laugh and a shake of his head, thinking how much laughter she manages to bring into his life.

His smirk dies when he turns around to meet her unsimiling eyes, her body rigid and her lips pursed in a thin line. Seeing her folded arms — despite the wrist — and tilted chin leaves little room for flexible interpretations.

Instantly the danger lights in his head start to flash and he has to go to SERIOUS-CON three. There is no doubt he has done something he shouldn't have.

Andy is given plenty of time to get his recent possible transgressions listed, in order of seriousness. He can't find much and nothing he can take as a definite culprit for the sudden icy mood.

Thus Sharon is glad to help him out.

"Rusty," she stresses almost syllable-by-syllable, "a lesson for you: everybody likes to be asked. Especially women."

"Rusty," he replies as the light dawns, thinking two can play this game, "a tip: some people like to be taken care of without needing to ask for it. Women especially."

Out of the corner of his eye Andy can see the boy assessing them; standing unmoving, their gazes deadlocked. Sharon probably has no idea Rusty sighs and chortles; she is too busy giving him that 'I outrank you, Lieutenant' look he hasn't seen in a while.

He is revisited by the not-unfamiliar thought of what she would do if he were just to kiss that look away.

"Yeah," the mumble and a tapping of the remote for more volume from the couch breaks his thoughts, "and I hear there are normal people somewhere out there. Just saying."

After being showed out less kindly than he is used to, Andy muses if he should man up and start asking Sharon things. It probably couldn't make things any worse, especially since his mind was all too ready to supply a long, long, list of questions.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Please note, this is a repost with minor corrections, no new content (Liddy's fate, Dr. Morales). For some reason simple replacing the ch didn't update. :( I guess this story is faulty to the core. XD **

_As a side note, I'll try to get ch4 live this week. The story is really stuck, mainly because Andy and Sharon claim to be just fine as they are. *sigh* And then we have Jack who is... there. Little decisive action and stating your wants wouldn't go amiss. :L_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 3<strong>

Saturday morning is a bad time for contacting the friends of a dead fifteen year old girl. Still, with a list of names from her best friend, they meet many. All are horrified, saddened and completely clueless to what happened. Some add new names on the list.

Liddy's cousins are none the wiser. They only can be more devastated by the news. Her parents remain in the dark. Quite literally for they are hiking the rainforest, cave diving.

The allocated morning hours tick away as the team gathers at the board. Provenza watches his watch often enough to know going home looms. Sanchez, his seat on the desk closest to the board, studies the situation like their Captain directed. Andy decides to join him. Bunching his arms he perches on the corner of Provenza's desk. An unkind swat directs him to relocate onto Tao's.

Tao has used most of the morning narrowing down the missing persons. While the others stare at the board, he lists nexts of kin for most likely candidates. Monday morning they have real options.

A teenager schlomps in. Leather jacket, collar up, jeans and a white t-shirt, dark hair and attitude like James Dean. The facade crumbles as he halts next to their board, fiddling with the straps of his black backpack.

"Hey, you the guys looking on... uhm, what happened on Liddy?"

Andy looks the boy up and down. "What's it to you?"

"You are or you ain't? Not blabbing to just anyone."

"Yeah, we are. And you are...?"

"Jesse. Jesse Martin."

"Do your parents know you're here, Jesse?" Sanchez queries.

"Uh, no. Don't want them."

"So," Sanchez continues after silently checking with Provenza, "how old are you, Jesse?"

"Seventeen."

The team shares a look and Sykes gets up from her chair.

"We'll get someone to sit with you."

Andy nods for Sanchez. He jumps off the desk and trots towards the Captain's office.

Sykes offers the boy a seat at her desk and Tao sprints to hide the boards. Jesse glances around not knowing where to look.

"How did you know we were asking about Liddy?" Sykes asks resting against the corner of her desk.

"People talk."

"And you wanted to come over because...?" Provenza prompts.

"I've got info," Jesse says with teenager's arrogance. It dies as his eyes land on the photo shadowed by the edge of the pull-down screen. "I was with her."

-x-x-x-

Andy and Amy sit listening to the tale of an unlikely friendship. The boy, Jesse, claims to have been friends with their dead girl, Liddy. He insists on the claim, even after they have told him no one they contacted mentioned him.

They take him seriously, though. Now.

Her phone lies in the middle, dead. Battery gone. Water damage. Maybe.

"Why didn't anyone know you were with her? Or even that you two were friends?" Amy asks.

"Liddy and me, we met at the pond a while back and got talking and —" He pauses to look from Sykes to Andy. Thinking the brotherhood of men creates some sort of deeper understanding, Jesse focuses on him and flashes his brows before finishing, " — things. You know, the kind of things girls usually don't without a little misdirection, a little coercion. You know how it goes for a guy."

"No," Andy responds harshly and not too truthfully, "I don't."

Jesse's eyes flit over the adults in the room. He tries to ignore the counsel the team — Sharon — managed to wrangle in on a Saturday.

"Anyway," he continues, "thought it would be kinda cool to see if she would want to again."

"And did she?" Andy asks. His scowl remains but the boy only smiles.

"You bet. All the time. And I thought, why not keep going, since I just broke up with my girlfriend anyways." He glances at Amy and kills the grin focusing back on Andy. "She'd sneak out and I think she got off on that. I mean, going behind everyone's back. I think she wanted a little game."

"You didn't want to tell anyone?"

"Hey, didn't care if someone knew. She's a hot chick. Not like... hot-hot, you know."

"So not a hot chick," Andy leans forward menacingly.

"No, I mean yes, but not like that. Pretty. Most girls try too hard, like too much make-up — Liddy did too but I told her to stop it — she's fine as she is. Nice too." The boy's voice breaks and he glances aside. His counsel pats his back, asks if he's doing fine. Jesse won't answer, only returns to his story. "But the moment I asked her to meet me at the mall, she went totally blank. She got all awkward and told me she'd like to do what we've been doing, you know, that chick code thing 'let's not complicate things' like she was trying to break up with me. Actually thought it was just that I had a girlfriend, but she didn't want to be seen with me even after I broke up with Hannah."

Amy jumps in, "And how did that make you feel? Liddy not wanting to be seen with you?"

The answering shrug belies the missing attitude.

"Didn't really care. We kept going to the pond and she'd walk right past me at school like she didn't know me but then she'd back around and pull me in some corner for making out, so... whatever."

He tries another grin, another connection to Andy. It remains one-sided.

"Jesse," Amy attracts his attention, "how did Wednesday go? You got to the pond and then what?"

"We did what we usually do. Hung out, talked, you know." His eyes flit towards Andy. The lack of fist bump coming his way has not changed. "First, just as friends. But it didn't take much hinting to get to the other stuff," Jesse adds on a smirk for Amy. "Fell asleep at some point, and then did some more of those. At some point I was fooling with her phone, she has this silly app that shows those geocache things and there was one just a bit in the woods so... Went in to check what's the deal, she didn't want to come and when I got back, she was — She — Look, maybe I shouldn't have left her, but I did."

"So," Andy summarizes, "you came back, she's in the water and you leave?"

"No! Of course not! I thought she left but then I saw something in the water and I went in and she was... gone. I tried but it took so long and they say it's three minutes and you don't come back." Jesse turns to look at the point where the back wall meets the ceiling. "I took off and got high and woke up to her phone ringing."

"Why did you take her things?"

"It was still on my bike and I didn't think."

"And where are rest of her things now?"

"In my bag," he answers throwing a nod towards the back pack lying on the floor. "I guess you want them."

They do, they nod. The story sounds surprisingly solid this far; the details the boy shared while waiting felt confirming enough.

"Thank you, Jesse," Amy says and smiles.

The officers rise, nod their thanks to the counsel. Andy reaches for the phone on the table and a film of panic flashes on the boy's face. It screams of the surprise and disbelief that was all.

"So... Was there something I could have done?"

The adults pause. Andy and Amy exchange looks.

"No," Andy says, "most likely not."

They walk out of the interview room to Provenza, Tao and Sanchez waiting behind the door. Tao snatches the phone from Andy's hands and walks off without a further word. Sanchez squeezes past them in the room and just as quickly returns with the back pack in hand. Amy disappears towards the media room to meet the Captain. She exits before Amy can reach the door handle. Amy hands her the file she had in the interview room.

The women pass in short conversation and the lieutenants are left to follow.

"Our Romeo was pretty good not saying what 'things' he and Liddy did were," Andy muses for no particular reason. Something in Jesse's attitude stuck, tickles his mind.

Provenza scowls seeing how his friend's eyes stick to a specific part of the Captain walking in front of them.

"You want to go back and ask for details? For the sake of inspiration?

"Look, just thinking aloud."

Entering the murder room the ladies join Sanchez at the empty desk in front of the whiteboards. The back pack lies on the table, surrounded by few things - a towel, a wallet, a pencil case. Sharon moves to pull on gloves, but contents to use the right one like a lazy person uses oven mitts.

Provenza takes his chair and swats Andy off his desk. He relocates on Sanchez's and watches the proceedings.

"Wouldn't hurt if you did some thinking," Provenza grumbles almost to himself, "quiet or not."

The three empty the bag and poke the items into two piles.

Sharon glances her watch, pulls back and starts removing the glove.

"Well, I think this checks out. Let's wait for Morales's final ruling, but otherwise..."

"Waiting for the family to get in touch," Tao finishes coming in.

Sharon turns around, acknowledges the entry with a nod.

"Speaking of which, Andy, Doctor Morales is waiting."

She receives a nod in response and he starts to collect the necessary things.

On her way to her office, she goes on to delegate, "Mike, evidence, Amy and Julio, statements please and Lieutenant Provenza —"

"— paperwork. Good God," the lieutenant in question finishes. They both — like everyone — know it's not only paperwork but it's an easy shorthand. Provenaza brushes his crossword aside. "Out of curiosity, when will your hand be back in commission, Captain?"

If Sharon, like Andy, notices the way everyone pauses to listen (only for a fraction of a second so as to not be obvious), she lets it slip. Quickly she picks up her coat and purse, then returns.

"Oh, any day now, Lieutenant. Thank you for the concern and I do apologize for the inconvenience," she says airily as she drapes the coat on one arm and pulls the strap of her purse on the other shoulder.

Andy wishes someone, preferably Sykes, asks for details, but the moment is gone when Sharon looks up with a smile.

"Everyone, be sure to get home early. Thank you for coming in." She turns to him and touches her fingers on his arm. "Shall we?"

-x-x-x-

Doctor Morales's 'I'm inclined to call it respiratory arrest' highlights the futility of their investigation. Without the real cause of death or an ID, nothing is going to go easy.

Andy, as loath as he is to admit, is already bored out of his mind. Everything is 'possibly' this, 'maybe' that, 'perhaps' something. After fifteen minutes he gave up on participating in the conversation. Now he concentrates on making notes, listening and studying the photos laid out for them.

So far the results are slim. No firm causes of death. Tox screens out on victims two and three, number one's clean.

Number one has been in the water for about two weeks. Good thing she was found when she was: it was the last chance before she would submerge for good. Time of death is around a month ago.

Number two, not much new. Morales guestimates time of death around a week, maybe ten days, ago.

Number three, even less new. Time of death, about a week ago. A day or two before she was found.

Now the doctor is laying out the similarities, over the body of their third victim.

"The rashes, both, look localized." He turns the left upper arm to show the skin, then gestures on the board with the photo of the second victim's rash. "Contact dermatitis."

"Such as?"

"Acid?" Andy blurts out.

Morales glances up at his sudden interest.

"Two's rash could be acid. Mild."

"Chemistry student?" Andy continues.

"Well, if she is," Morales answers even as his expression tells everyone 'as if', "I don't want to know what kind of chemistry she was doing getting acid burn on her thigh. But could be something like lemon juice or window cleaning fluid as well."

"Couldn't it have gone through her clothes? The acid?"

"Yeah."

The 'as if' look continues for the few seconds Andy waits to jot down the detail.

Morales moves down on the arm, places a thumb on her elbow and turns his focus to Sharon. She steps and leans closer.

"Here's another detail to connect victims two and three: needle marks. Just one, on left arm. Looks like could be a blood test. Could be something else."

The scratch of Andy's pen is accompanied with a sigh.

"Yeah," Morales snaps, "can't turn into something concrete."

Sharon squints from one man to other and shakes her head. Andy knows he just made the teacher's mental list. He can hardly wait for the dressing down. At least it would mean this exercise in frustration would be over.

He decides to make an effort to keep quiet. Again.

"And lastly," the doctor says clearly more even-tempered, "there are the burn marks."

"Torture?"

"No, it doesn't appear that was the case. At least connected to death. No other common injuries, such as those from restraints, to report."

"Then what, abuse?"

"It's very rare that there wouldn't be any other indications than one or two burn marks and in relatively hidden parts of the body. Also, the bruising on any of the bodies looked insignificant."

"Gangs?"

"Possible, but female gangs, brands, very, very rare together. Actually, never seen one case."

"And how do you explain two marks each, same place, but different marks?"

"Exactly. And to risk sounding somewhat politically incorrect, they aren't the archetypes of gang criminals."

"Sororities, sports teams?"

"Same questions come to mind. Personally I fail to see the beauty in the designs. And again, no apparent connection with the motifs." He looks down on the girl, like the sheet covering her torso isn't there. "Besides, with those the idea usually is to show people your affiliation, not hide the marks on your hips."

"Yeah," Andy mumbles forgetting his effort to stay quiet, "that's what Tao said. Printed out Provenza's golfing holiday's worth of symbols and told them to be 'too generic' to 'extrapolate on'."

With her glazed eyes turned on the woman, who is little more than a girl, Sharon ignores his witty remarks to muse out loud, "So, are you saying this could possibly be a result of a... RACK?"

"My best guess right now," Morales answers with the same musing tone, "The marks don't look like any common symbol or logo, though you should do a search, and the tox screen is still out. However, the brands are not the cause of death and the two ladies don't look like victims of asphyxiation."

"What's a rack?" Andy interrupts their conversation.

Sharon turns around to acknowledge him, very briefly, bunches her arms and purses her lips turning her focus back to Morales.

The faint sounds she makes clearing her throat attract Andy's attention more fully, and he notices how she is looking more at the tiled floor beside the Doctor instead of him or the body between them.

"No, she said R-A-C-K," Morales answers in that manner of his that Andy always finds very effective in transmitting the 'don't you people know anything?' message scientifically gifted (nerdy) people always have for others, "As in all capitals. Stands for risk-aware consensual kink. BDSM. Well, a philosophy for it, not any specific activity, rather the way you approach the activities. So covering anything from mild restraints, handcuffs, to — well, anything you want as long as you and your partner, or partners, understand what could go wrong and how. Not just the physical ramifications you have in pain infliction," he rambles on searching for the words while he talks, "for example, but the social and legal aspects you have in engaging in sexual acts in public, those sort of things too." He glances at the woman on the table, "This would be either voluntary or accepted forced branding."

"Right. Yeah."

"Not a mainstream activity by any means."

For endless seconds the snap of the clock's minute hand jumping ahead one and the impatient doctor's unasked 'are we done yet' hang in the air, alone. Should anyone ask, Andy has decided to claim being busy thinking patterns to include three victims through scarce evidence. In reality, his preoccupation circles around wiping his mind clear of Sharon softly suggesting salacious things.

His mind is simply off-kilter, and he has to get this sorted out. He is no fool; he knows no other choice exists for him to get what he wants.

Hiding this distraction takes some effort, effort that this far has paid off.

It turns out he is not the only one with effort in mind when Sharon takes over the conversation again, stronger, "But could explain the chosen areas, right? Very easy to hide from others in your life, friends, colleagues, even family."

"Yes. After all, it's not like slapping on a tattoo, brand marks are bound to raise a few eyebrows even this day and age."

"Can you think of why two different ones?" she asks looking behind him for the board showing the cleaned-up photos of the marks, "Assuming they are not a unit, of course. And if they are not of the same age."

"Well, they aren't, but close. See," he says moving the sheet down to reveal both marks on the woman's body and points at the left one, "this one is much pinker, less scabbing, so a few days at least. Possibly a week or two. Neither fully healed. As is the case with all the victims.

"Usually accepting a brand would take some commitment, right? So why take one, then quickly form a commitment for another..."

"Unless it's a pair working on these girls," Andy pitches in.

Sharon glances at him in surprise that makes him think he has cracked the case. Possibly not the reality.

"Could that be the case?"

"Yes. I've found nothing to deny or confirm the possibility. At the moment they look like healthy young women, with few small mysteries painted on their bodies, who just stopped being alive." Morales covers the body again. "Though I must say the brands, if we want to call them that, might not have been deep enough to leave a permanent scarring. Or if they would, very faint ones."

"So," Sharon starts to pace, fully in think mode, "assuming we are on the right track, these women found someone, or someones, to introduce them to alternative sex. We can assume introduction since there is yet no knowledge of either being into things like that before. She accepts a brand of her partner, he or she brings in someone else who the victim wants to honor enough to be marked."

"Not necessarily her choice," Morales reminds her.

"No, obviously. But since they seemed to live outwardly normal lives, alone, we might also assume they had the choice of lifestyle."

"Possible. Luckily I don't have to find evidence that isn't here."

The dismissal is clear without the added glancing of watch which Sharon mirrors on reflex.

"No. Thank you Doctor, let's hope there will be more when we talk next."

They exchange nods and Morales turns his back on them. Andy has to admire the man's unambiguous gestures.

He follows Sharon out in the corridor. Again he pushes the doors open for her but this time he doesn't make note of her making no note of it. He makes no note of the mint and menthol thing he usually thinks either.

His mind busies itself with something else.

"How did you think of RACK?"

"How do you think of anything on a case, Lieutenant," she answers her back to him. "You would have thought of it soon."

"No, I wouldn't. Never heard of it before."

"Oh."

The word drops from her lips all too easy, making him take the subject as closed despite his unsatisfied curiosity.

He watches her run fingers through her hair. The right hand. The sleeve reveals the sharper red line on the bruising of her arm. It looks strange, eerily familiar but yet foreign. He didn't get a good look of her hand yesterday, but the line looks part cut, part chafe. Ignoring the other discoloration, he knows he has seen that before. On a wrist. On wrists.

Her hands reach behind her back to untie the gaudy Vicks blue smock. The way they cross in the process prompts an image to flash in his mind. Handcuffs. Light restraints as in handcuffs? That's why she landed on the idea of RACK so quickly? That's why she didn't get enough sleep?

His mouth falls open; he is glad he is not carrying anything or driving, even drinking would have been too difficult.

Sharon, oblivious to his staring, throws the smock in a bin, straightens her jacket and goes to pull her hair over her right shoulder. The gesture doesn't escape his scrutiny, not least because he has thought about doing that for her some day. He trails the path of her fingers with his eyes and the time feels elastic when they reveal a reddish mark on her neck. Before he can decide whether it is a scrape or a burn, her hair is again softly kissing the delicate expanse of her neck.

The mental list of the questions he wants to ask her flushes empty. New ones, starting from completely different points, flood his mind in a jumble that refuses to form proper sentences.

Somewhere on her skin there is more secrets than he has even begun to imagine.

He needs to rush to catch up with her, again. Twice in two days she has floored him in the morgue by a mere gesture.

Pushing past her to dispense his gown, he feels the demand to say something, anything.

"Just to be clear, I meant the word, not the thing."

Either the words or the way he near whispers them in her hair causes her shy checking of the floor with a barely hidden smile.

-x-x-x-

"Look," Andy says on the drive back, too close to the PD, but while Sharon has been reading the packet Morales had prepared he has been mulling over a lot of things, "I've been thinking. If your theory of RACK is correct, why the rash?"

"Maybe it's unrelated," Sharon answers without looking up from her reading.

"Yeah. But two?"

"And two different kinds."

"Yeah. And there's still the cause of death."

"Yes," she agrees turning a page, "there's still that."

"I mean, I can't think of anything... arousing that would leave this little marks, this little evidence if it goes wrong badly enough to kill someone."

She looks through the windshield, surprised of his chosen angle.

"Maybe we should ask someone who knows a little more, I'm not sure I do either," she admits.

In case he has something further to say, she waits looking at the traffic ahead. It looks like the beginnings of a jam.

When he stays quiet, she immerses herself in the revised preliminary report. She hasn't found anything differing from what they heard during the meeting.

"Dammit!"

Sharon raises her head and watches his hand on the steering wheel. Andy both sees and feels her fixation. His mood watered down by the tingling left on his palm from the slap on the wheel, he sheds her an apologetic glance.

"Sorry, this case, it's —"

"Frustrating, yes," she flatly finishes for him and goes back to her reading. "We are all frustrated, Andy."

"Yeah? You telling me to mind my blood pressure?"

"No." She turns a page and cranes her neck to focus on the top right corner. "I don't have to, when you already think it."

Their soft chuckles mingle.

Smiling she goes through her file and he goes back to his thoughts about the case.

"Why would anyone want to be branded?" he wonders aloud.

With her tone far-away and distracted, she answers the rhetoric question. "Pain, pleasure, humiliation, thrill, take your pick."

"You can get all of those through non-permanent solutions too."

"Yeah, you can."

"But that's like forever saying 'hey, this and this owns me'. I don't get it. Just for sex."

"Why do people wear wedding rings? That's all ownership too. People wear those 'just for sex' just as much."

The bumper-to-bumper continues so he has time to look at her more fully.

"You can take off the ring when it's not wanted any more."

"Yeah, you can."

He catches her discreetly studying her ring finger. His list of questions gets another entry from her serious, impassive look.

"I guess this is why I don't get tattoos," Andy breaks her focus and she feigns having read the whole time.

"Probably."

"Which one would you rather have?"

"The brand."

"The choice included a wedding ring too," he clears, "That, a tattoo or the brand."

"And the answer remains. A burn hurts like hell for a while, then you forget it. A marriage you forget for a while and it hurts like hell for the rest of your life." She turns a page and he is unsure if it's just for effect. "On tattoos I'm with you, I just don't get them."

Andy turns to his thoughts again. The afternoon has been strange. Confusing. Both professionally as well as personally.

The idea that Sharon is not wanting to marry again he understands. Hell, he thought the same for years after his own divorce and he still thinks that sometimes. He can only imagine the thoughts she is having about marriage right now. In the middle of a divorce the institution sort of loses its appeal. However, to hate the thing so profoundly that you would rather permanently mar your beautiful Irish skin...

He parks the car on the first vacant place on the PD lot. Sharon looks up, confused.

Anticipating unpleasant questions and arguments about laptops and debriefings, he slaps the wheel all too perkily.

"Right, let's get you home."

Closing the folder on her lap, she looks around again.

"Andy, it's barely gone four!"

"And you're barely fit for duty," he counters neglecting to point out the time is eight minutes to five. On a Saturday.

She scowls at him, hard. Andy throws his hands up and pulls back.

"Fine, fine! If that's your attitude, let's go shooting. Then bowling. After that... how do you feel about crocheting?" Unamused, those green eyes unbending as steel, she stares at him. He grins, "Or would you rather let me take you home, eat, rest and thoroughly piss off both Taylor and Provenza?"

Scowling gives way for tiny giggles and tiny shakes that send her hair flying.

"What are you suggesting we do?"

He stops with his grin. Going anywhere together was an inadvertent suggestion. In fact, he had planned on slipping back to the office after getting her settled home. Though now that the other idea is out there, he is not arguing.

"It's not my place to suggest anything," he says slow their standoff last night still fresh, "but if you —"

His phone buzzes — insistently, inconveniently — before he finishes. Torn between answering and finishing, he needs her encouraging nod to pick the damn thing out.

Seeing the screen he sighs.

"And not even asking anything now. Caught a body."


End file.
